Kestrel
by Ellie Adams
Summary: Who *is* that masked woman? Reviews are most welcome. M rating for Chapter 4- please take it seriously.
1. Paris Introit

Her code name was Kestrel.

The first time he ever saw her, or saw and remembered her, was in Paris, during that colossal cock-up that Jen had made by accidentally killing that deep cover French agent. Naturally, because he was her supervisor, he had taken responsibility and allowed himself to be arrested in her place. After cooling his heels for over eighteen hours in a French jail cell, he had been abruptly released. No explanations, no apologies, not even so much as an "au revoir" from the authorities.

Mystified, and frankly pissed off to no end, he stood on the steps of the _gendarmerie_ and tried to turn his coat collar to the wind and rain beating the city to a pulp. The limp collar flopped inward instead, pouring icy rain down the back of his shirt, causing him to curse in three different languages. His ultra-sensitive ears caught a breath of soft laughter, carried on the biting wind through the sounds of the rain soaked traffic.

Like her avian namesake, she was perched above him, on the roof of a neighboring building. He could just pick out her outline; she was clad head to toe in black, and her face and hair were completely covered by a black balaclava, but there was no mistaking _that_ figure for that of a man. She wiggled her gloved fingers at him in a mocking wave, and then sank back into the blackness of the night.

He swiftly and covertly searched the alley and the surroundings of the building for any sign of a woman in black, but came up fruitless. Whoever she was she had vanished as effectively as he had ever seen any agent do before her. And he was positive that she was an agent for *someone.* Yeah, there was no mistaking that.

The next time he saw her was six weeks later at a party in Aix-en-Provence that he and Jen were attending. Jen had forced him into a tuxedo, him whining all the while about the tight collar and the narrow evening pumps she had produced, but the effect was exactly what they were looking for: wealthy American newlyweds looking to enjoy the upper class social scene in France on their honeymoon. Jenny was wearing deep forest green satin, cut all the way to there and practically backless. Her hair and eyes were almost incandescent, and the four-inch green heels she wore made her already willowy figure even more mouthwatering. She had taken the opportunity to give him a quick preview of her black lace, barely-there lingerie and thigh-high stockings, laughingly dodging his hands, promising a private viewing later after the party. He fully intended to hold her to that. A long, slow private viewing was exactly what he needed as a reward for those shoes and the tie.

When they stepped into the palace hall, his senses were assaulted instantly by the bright lights and sounds of a very large, very good party in full swing. He gritted his teeth; the crowd was larger than they had been told it was going to be. Much larger. That was going to make it harder for them to find and then keep their eyes on their mark that night, a French drug cartel leader who "rented out" secure cartel shipping and transportation lines to terrorists moving arms and people around, including on US naval ships in port in Marseilles.

Jen reached up and whispered in his ear, "Your teeth are audible from here. Do you see Le Goff at all?" He pretended to laugh at her seemingly intimate comment, and snarled back in a low voice, "What do you think?" Jen smirked at him and brushed her fingers over his chest in a possessive and intimate gesture. "I think we're fucked," she murmured back in a very low voice, keeping the smile plastered on her face while she scanned the crowd, pretending to look bored and slightly jaded, "Where the hell did all these people come from? I thought this was supposed to be a small _intimate_ party." He bit back the bitchy reply he was going to make, and instead searched the crowd of people, not recognizing a single face, and especially not that of their target. Jen snagged two glasses of excellent champagne from a passing waiter, and handed him one. As he lifted the glass to take his first sip, his eye was caught by a small laughing group clustered around a woman and a man.

The woman was perhaps in her late twenties to very early thirties, her silky skin clear and smooth without the aid of cosmetics. She was dressed in deep blue silk, the column of the gown skimming over generous and attractive curves. She had little cleavage on display, preferring instead to let the exquisite cut of the gown highlight her body, but drew attention to the shapely arms and shoulders slipping, creamy and silken, from the gown. Her skin was ivory, as pale ivory as Jenny's was, but instead of Jenny's rosy undertones, hers glowed with golden light, as though lit from within by sunlight. Her hair was the color of a ripe wheat field, dark gold with lighter tones here and there; the color was beyond the skill of any colorist or stylist, and he concluded that this was her natural hair color. She was telling the little group a story that seemed to involve a plane somehow, and they were clearly appreciative and attentive. There was a smattering of laughing applause at the conclusion to the tale, and she lifted her eyes up to gaze around idly for a moment and caught his.

Then he saw who she was standing with. Their target. Le Goff was laughing and talking to another well-dressed woman in the small group, but his hand was on her elbow and his fingers caressed the silky skin of her inner arm. Her eyes met Gibbs' squarely, sparkling more from mischief than the effects of the champagne, and a slow half-smile curved her lips.

And she wiggled her fingers at him in that same saucy, slightly mocking wave she had given him six weeks before.

Jenny whispered in an angry hiss, "What the hell are you doing, Jethro?" He merely nodded towards the woman and her companion, their target. Jen followed his eyes, and stood stock still for a fraction of a moment. Jen almost silently snarled, "Fuck!" and grabbed his hand leading him onto the dance floor, where the music and sound of feet and the skirts of ball gowns would mask their whispered conversation, but keeping them close to the edge of the dance floor, near their target.

"What is he doing?" demanded Jen, from the safety of his arms. "What's he doing with _her_?"

His head spun for a fraction of a moment. "You _know_ her?"

"No, but she looks way too rich-blooded to be consorting with a drug cartel leader slash terrorist wannabe."

"They're on the move." Indeed, the woman had taken her companion's arm, smiling charmingly at him, and they were moving towards the garden, whispering seductively to each other. The garden would give the happy couple more privacy, but it was going to be way harder to keep an eye on the target in the darkness. There was no moon tonight and the clothing of the couple was dark enough to effectively hide them from view.

He and Jen moved rapidly off the floor and split up, Jen going directly to the dimly lit garden through the veranda doors, and he to the back gate. He lit up a cigarette, and drifted casually but quickly away from the group of other smokers, towards the back of the garden. He arrived just in time to see Le Goff being strong armed into a black limo by the woman in blue and two black-masked and garbed people. Where the hell had she _gotten_ that gun in her hand so quickly? And where the _fuck_ was Jen? The limo spun out, an impressive feat for a car of that type, and the woman leaned out to shut the open door. She shot him a cheeky grin and wiggled her fingers at him cheerfully.

The next several hours were spent at the safe house, a cramped and musty apartment over a cheap couscous shop, trying to figure out what the hell was going on. He had to confess to Jenny that he had seen her before, that she may well have arranged his mysterious release from the French jail, and that she was clearly an agent. Jenny was decidedly not happy with that turn of events, but had kept her protests to muttered curses and name calling, while they worked to unravel the puzzle. During the hours of frantic calls and arguments, a name surfaced: Kestrel. He dimly remembered hearing he name in passing and associated it with the code name of a contract agent who had worked for various agencies over the years, most of them part of the American alphabet soup of agencies, but sometimes MI-5, the French DCRI, and even Interpol. An agent who took the most dangerous assignments with the highest risk factors. Who she was working for now seemed to be bordering on a national secret, but that she was running an op out from under NCIS was obvious. Which pissed him off.

And he never got his private viewing of Jen in that racy French lingerie, which pissed him off even more.

The third time he saw her was back in Paris three weeks later. He was sitting at a crowded café on the Rue Monmartre, drinking coffee and reading _Le Monde Diplomatique_ in English, waiting for Jen to finish shopping at a lingerie boutique nearby. She had finally promised him that she would give him the fashion show that she had teased him with nearly three weeks before in Aix, but she wanted something new to show off. He had happily deposited her in front of the boutique, humming to himself in anticipation of his coming treat.

"May I take this seat?" asked a voice in a broad northern English accent. "It's crowded here this time of day."

He looked up at the woman in front of him and froze. Her hair was short and nut brown this time, eyes the color of milk chocolate. The curvy figure had thickened and she was slightly limping. Her skin was coarsened and she had a slight scar on her chin. The clothing she wore was over-tight and cheaply made, right down to the fake leather flats on her feet. She looked nothing like she had at the party in Aix; even her cheekbones looked flatter, her eyes rounder. But he still knew it was her. Silently, he motioned for her to take the other chair at the table.

She lurched into the seat with far less grace than she had shown before, and set down her shopping bags. "Thanks kindly mate. Busy today here and my feet are killing me."

The harried waiter hustled over and took her order: black tea, English if at all possible, strong and hot, and a _pain au chocolat, _the pronunciation of which she massacred. She gazed calmly at him, and smiled that little half-smile, just a quirk of her mouth really, but still sexy as hell. To his shock, he felt his body respond to that smile, the stirrings of arousal at the base of his spine. "Is this work or pleasure?" he asked her, the words carefully neutral but weighted like a ton of bricks.

"Work mostly," she shrugged. "But sometimes pleasure." Her eyes raked appreciatively over his lean body. He was keenly aware that he was getting harder, and he knew now what a woman might feel like when a man undressed her with his eyes. She was clearly having fun now. "Sorry about Aix, mate. But it happens to the best of us sometimes. We just moved faster than you did." She gazed around the café apparently idly, but he could see her eyes taking in everything and everyone around them and filing the details away for reference, exactly the way that he and Jen had done earlier.

He followed her eyes to a tourist couple sitting at a nearby table, heads down, seemingly discussing a guidebook to the Louvre. Their camera was idle on the table, facing them. She blinked at him and then at the camera, conveying a silent message. They were likely being filmed he realized, and he gave her a barely perceptible nod. "Still, a bloody pleasure to get away from Durham. Bloody chavs taking the place over. Right proper nuisance 'tis. And taking hols somewhere else is right out; they follow you everywhere, they do! Don't care much for the Frogs, but I've got to take my hols somewhere, din't I?" He had to give her credit; she sounded exactly like the crass shop girl she was pretending to be. "Ah, here's the tea then. Ta, love," she simpered to the scowling waiter as he set her tea and pastry in front of her. "American you are then, right? Where from? Ah, wouldn't matter any road; only place I know in the bloody States is Texas anyway. Yee-haw!" she drawled in a horrific imitation of a Texas accent.

He choked back a smile and tried to hide it by folding up his paper carefully. By the time the task was accomplished, he had turned amusement into a condescending smirk; Jenny would have said that it came naturally to him, but he was genuinely amused by this woman. He shouldn't have been, he should have been pissed off and raging at her. Instead, he was amused by her audacity and impressed by her obvious skill. And his already close-fitting jeans were feeling tighter by the moment.

"Oh, I'm just here for the bird watching," he lazily commented, watching her conceal a smirk so like his own it was funny. "Lots of interesting and mysterious species in France. Some even keep popping up over and over." He looked at her with half-lidded eyes, appearing every inch the predatory male he was pretending to be. She slurped her tea in response.

"Oh, aye, birds," she repeated vaguely, murmuring softly as she eviscerated the pastry to get to the chocolate inside. "Lots of the little things in England. Got a mate in France interested in their migration routes. Me, couldn't care less, but ya know how it is; gotta pretend to be interested to keep their attention captured." Migration routes and a "mate" in France my ass, he thought. "He even gave me this keen bracelet before I left Durham. I like this un the best." She shoved her braceleted wrist under his nose, displaying a tacky charm bracelet. The charm she held out was a tiny pound note contained in a clear cube; he could barely make out the electronic wink deep inside the tiny cube even at this close range. He caught her hand, and pretended a closer look at the charm, while the pad of his thumb stroked lightly over the pulse point in her slender wrist. He saw her pupils dilate slightly at the caress and he smirked. She didn't pull away, but leaned closer to him instead, whispering, "Père Lachaise, Thursday noon. I'll be near Pierre Georges."

She pulled her arm away, giggling. "Aren't you a saucy un? I'd best go before you trick me outta my knickers, sly thing!" She glanced over her shoulder and saw Jenny bearing down on them, a frown clouding her pretty face. Quickly, Kestrel bent down and pressed a kiss to his cheek, casually brushing his paper into his lap, covering his now obvious erection. Before he could react, she whirled out of the café, shopping bags in tow.

Jen arrived swiftly at the table, stormy eyed. He stood quickly and tossed a few euros on the table to cover the bill, and grabbed Jenny by the elbow, steering her out of the patio. "..That?" she hissed through clenched and grinding teeth.

They pretended to be window shopping along the route back to the safe house, a lovely little apartment just off the Rue Monparnasse. He murmured the situation to Jen as they walked and flirted, looking for all the world like the newlyweds they were pretending to be and the lovers they truly were.

"So she wants to meet in Père Lachaise? And why Pierre Georges, whoever the hell he is anyway?" Jenny murmured as she reached up to kiss the side of his neck, pretending to giggle when he squeezed her tighter. "What is she up to Jethro? I don't like this at all."

He leaned down to nuzzle at her ear, enjoying the genuine shiver of pleasure that rippled through her at his caress. "Père Lachaise because it's public and open. We can stroll and talk and the chances of us being overheard are practically zip. Pierre Georges," he shrugged, "still marked on the maps but not nearly as popular as Jim Morrison or Sartre. I don't know what she's up to now, but she practically told me she's working for the French right now and that they're holding Le Goff."He knew who Pierre Georges was; Jen's knowledge of military history was lacking in this area. "Anyway, you now know everything that I do. We'd better meet with her, if nothing else than to get a good bead on her for future ops. She's an unknown right now, and that makes my skin itch in places it shouldn't."

Jen thought about that for a moment and then nodded. She was obviously still skeptical, but his last comment had caught her attention, just as he had known it would. "How about then," she purred softly and seductively, "we go home and I scratch some of those uncomfortable spots for you." She held up the suggestively tiny bag from the boutique. "And I'm dying to change out of these clothes into something far more comfortable." He grinned, anticipation writ large on his face, and grabbed her hand, pulling them towards the privacy of the safe house.


	2. Père Lachaise Prelude

Three days later, he and Jenny made their way to the cemetery in the heart of Paris. Père Lachaise was one of the biggest cemeteries in the city, and served as the resting place for famous and humble alike. He had always enjoyed the cemetery; the statuary and the cenotaphs were magnificent, and it was a good place to wander and think in. He was feeling relaxed and at ease with the world today. The show Jen had put on for his benefit had been totally satisfying; who _knew_ that so much lingerie could fit into one tiny bag? She was wearing some of it today underneath those jeans and the light, green sweater she had on. He had hopes for another slow striptease when they returned from Père Lachaise. They wandered hand-in-hand, seemingly lazily through the cemetery, making their way towards the grave of the French Resistance leader and war hero.

She stood at the grave, staring at the stone pensively. She was dressed in slim black slacks and a sleeveless cream silk shirt. Her hair was a lighter brown than before, gathered up in a chic scarf tied around her head. Simple pearl earrings, black ballet flats and an understated, but top quality leather bag completed her outfit. She had a bouquet of mixed flowers in her hand, carrying them upside-down in traditional French fashion. As she turned to greet them, Gibbs stared dispassionately at her face, analyzing the changes. Her skin was slightly darker than before, although her complexion was clear. The flat cheekbones had been sculpted into sharper relief, and her nose was snubbed and had a slight tilt to the tip. Her eyes were grey today and there was a somber look in them; a far cry from the saucy mischief that he had seen before and completely at odds with her current gamine looks.

As they drew closer, he heard her say, with a light French accent, "I wonder if I could have done what he did. He died trying to defuse a landmine near his comrades you know. I'm not sure I could do that. I don't think I'm nearly brave enough."

Jen looked at her curiously. "Why not? Isn't that what we do every day?" she asked in a soft voice, drawing closer to the other woman. "Defuse other people's situations to create a safer place for others?" The two women were about the same height, although Kestrel was a bit curvier than Jenny was. They actually could have passed for sisters standing together like this.

Kestrel shot a look at Jenny and gave a very Gallic shrug. "_Ah, oui_, I suppose it is somewhat true." She leaned over and gently laid the bouquet on the grave, and then turned and began to walk with them along the path. "But what are we to do when that ability to protect is taken from us by the very governments we serve?"

A cold chill went through Gibbs. He knew what had happened. "They released him didn't they?"

Jenny spun around to look at her companions, mouth open in surprise. Before she could say anything, Kestrel spoke again. "He turned informant for the US Department of Homeland Security. Le Goff will be permitted to continue his activities in exchange for information about the Abu Sayyif terrorists who use his cartel's networks. His agreement was negotiated by his very well-paid lawyers and trust me, they ensured that he has a very wide…space…in which to continue to poison children and destroy families. The agreement was negotiated, champagne was called for and drunk in the office, everyone shook hands and went home to an excellent dinner, well-satisfied with their places in the world," she finished with a note of bitter sarcasm.

Gibbs sighed while Jenny bit back a curse. He had expected something like this. Hoped against hope that this wouldn't happen, but he was resigned to the fact that the Americans and the French both needed the information worse than they needed to arrest the man. "When was he released?"

"Five days ago. Just before I met you at the café. _N__aturellement_, I am now most curious to know who the couple at the other table filming us was. Clearly, they were watching for you and your partner and did not expect a bumbling Englishwoman with an electronics jammer to appear and ruin their fun." She pointed to a grave and pretended to give a quiet lecture on the occupant for the benefit of any watchers. She continued in a soft voice, "My guess, of course, would be DHS trying to figure out what you knew and what you were planning next. NCIS and DHS do not work or play well together I think." Her eyes glinted mischievously for a moment and then quickly sobered again.

"I have no idea who it was but you can damn well bet I'm gonna find out. When I do, you'll be the first to know," Gibbs snarled in a low tone. She shook her head as she pointed to another grave. "_C'est triste_, but my services are no longer required here. I have done exactly what I was paid to do: root out Le Goff and bring him in. I wouldn't even have known about his release but for a loyal friend in the DHS who informed me about it. In the meantime, my services were contracted again and I am scheduled to leave the country in a few hours. I do suggest that you discover who our little friends were though." Gibbs nodded grimly, pretending to show interest in a particularly nice bit of statuary.

Jenny listened carefully, taking it all in quietly. "How can we contact you?" Kestrel shook her head again. "You can't. I'm covert ops. By the time you figure it out, I'll probably be on the other side of the world. And don't think that you can just access my file to see who I really am or where to find me again. You'll need a security clearance higher than either of you have a hope of getting. I won't even have the same face next time you see me!" She stooped in front on a nearby headstone to put a small white rock on top of a gravestone with others already on top, a Jewish custom Gibbs knew, but he wasn't sure if that indicated that she was Jewish or just honoring a custom from another religion. "Consider this my farewell gift to you and an apology for scooping Le Goff out from under you, although the outcome of this little farce would have been the same, I'm sure. _Bonne chance_." She kissed Jenny lightly on each cheek, and then reached up to Gibbs to kiss him once on each cheek, close to the corner of his mouth, closer than she should have been kissing him. She lifted her eyes fleetingly to his and he saw the sexy sparkle appear and then disappear. A promise and regret in one brief look.

They watched her walk away from them as they continued to slowly stroll along. "Do you think she's serious Jethro?" asked Jenny. "Do you think they really just let him go? And what the hell was up with that kiss she gave you?"

Gibbs just gave her what she referred to as "the asshole smirk," and countered with, "Can you do better?"

He was mightily pleased when she dragged him back to the safehouse and, indeed, did much better than an almost kiss.


	3. Virginia Passage

The next time he saw her was also the first time he slept with her.

Jenny had left him high and dry after the Serbian op, choosing her career over him, something that had cut him more deeply than he cared to admit. A damned "Dear John" letter—was that all he deserved in her eyes? He had loved her, loved her more than he had dared to let himself believe until after she was gone. He sometimes wondered if he could ever have kept her though, a beautiful, passionate, ambitious woman like that, but he knew deep down he would have found a way had he had the chance.

Still reeling from Jenny's abandonment, he had thrown himself into his job with a ferocity that had even surprised his superiors. Bourbon and work were the only two things that dulled the pain, made it recede into the far reaches of his mind, so he threw himself into his work by day and into the bottle of bourbon at night. He hated himself for being so weak, but it was all he could think of to ease the grief.

Temporarily reassigned to the States after a half-cocked op with Callen and Burley had gone bad in Russia, he was nursing a half-healed bullet wound to the shoulder and a big load of pure rage and anger. He had become almost unpredictable in his anger, lashing out at anyone or anything that even vaguely dared intrude on his misery.

Astonishingly, NCIS seemed to think that _this_ was the perfect time to assign him to a temporary duty assignment: a protection detail for some big-shot Commodore who was hosting a huge party at his residence in Virginia. Worse, it was black-tie. Once he received the assignment, via email because _nobody_ at NCIS was stupid enough to give it to him personally, he stalked up the stairs from the bullpen, and flung open the door to Morrow's office so hard it crashed with a loud _bang!_ into the opposite wall, causing Morrow to reach for his gun and his assistant to dive behind him. Morrow sighed and relaxed, and watched Gibbs warily, waiting for the verbal explosion that was coming.

"What the fuck _is_ this?" Gibbs snarled through tightly clenched teeth, throwing the wadded up print-out of the email at Morrow's desk. Morrow sighed, waved the frightened assistant out, and looked squarely at Gibbs. "_That_ is a temporary assignment for you until you're totally fit to go back overseas again. You will be part of the detail protecting Commodore Wiest and his wife during this ball. The party itself is an annual gathering for high-ranking officers from across the world, but your specific assignment is the Commodore and his family," Morrow finished calmly.

"No."

Morrow lifted his eyebrow, "No? I don't believe I understood that correctly Special Agent Gibbs. There is no choice here. None. You will go, you will perform your duties to the best of your ability, and you will return. That is your only option. Unless you quit," he added. Tom Morrow was rarely so uptight with his best agent. However, he knew that Jethro Gibbs, as much Marine as he still was, would not go against his training and refuse a direct order. Gibbs knew it as well, and knew that Morrow was giving him a direct order this time. Which meant that he had Gibbs over a barrel, and they both knew it.

Gibbs snarled a curse under his breath and slammed out of the office, scaring the stuffing out of the assistant again. She asked Morrow later about getting her own gun.

He showed up as commanded at the estate in Virginia, three days later and a day before the party. He was there as Senior Agent in Charge for the security detail assigned to the Commodore. He was greeted at the door by the Commodore himself, a jolly man with an infectious booming laugh, who walked with a cane thanks to a recent mild stroke. He knew that the commodore was a self-made man, working himself up through the ranks by being just plain better than everyone else. He had married young to a woman who was Southern "royalty" who came with the huge estate that he currently lived on, and a comparable fortune, which had only increased through the years. His wife had died many years before, and he had almost immediately remarried, this time to the widow of a friend; this unseemly haste in remarrying was the closest thing to scandal concerning the commodore that Gibbs knew about.

"Agent Gibbs! So nice to see you! Morrow's told me all about you—said you like to work with wood, eh? Got something I'd like to show you later; I think you'll like it." Somehow it was hard to stay pissed off around this enthusiastic and cheerful man. "You're here to watch the family, eh? Well, there's only the three of us—me, the wife, and our grandgirl. Come in! Come in! Miserable weather for a party isn't it? Maybe that'll help keep some of the crowd away, eh?"

Wiest slapped Gibbs jovially on the shoulder, as a tall, elegant older woman entered the room. She was dressed in a taupe silk pantsuit with an impressive pearl necklace over the jacket, and was perfectly coiffed and manicured. Contrary to his expectations, she smiled warmly and extended her slim hand to him, "Hello, you must be Agent Gibbs. Tom has told us so much about you that we were sure that you were the perfect agent for this. Matthew, although the entry is nice, it is certainly not the warmest or the nicest place to keep our guest. Wouldn't your study be much better for this? Agent Gibbs, may I offer you some coffee or tea? And I'm sure that you should probably eat after you meet with Matthew; there's some very nice roast beef and some delightful cheese waiting to be eaten in the kitchen." Eleanor Wiest was clearly as hospitable as her husband, and equally charming.

The study was a marvel in manliness: walnut paneled, plush forest green carpeting, a huge walnut desk in the center of the room, and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves along two of the walls. Along another wall was an impressive display cabinet with antique firearms in it, all carefully labeled in a neat hand. The French doors to the left of the desk led out into what would be a delightful garden during dryer, warmer weather. There was a small table with liquor bottles and cut crystal glasses lined up on it.

The commodore had the house plans his own security teams used spread out on the desk, and the two of them quickly lost themselves in the details. Mrs. Wiest, or Nora as he had been asked to call her, had slipped out and returned with a large coffee tray. On it, instead of the china he expected, she had put big, thick white mugs, rightly guessing that he'd feel more comfortable with those than anything else. After she left and the door closed quietly behind her, he could hear her giving directions to the catering and floral staff.

When the last security details had been disposed of, Gibbs asked, "What about your granddaughter? Where will she be during all this? Does she know about the security detail and what that involves?"

The commodore nodded, "Odessa. Her father is a high-ranking officer in the Royal Marines. She's had a bodyguard pretty much all her life, so she knows what to expect. Odessa has a good head on her shoulders and she knows what's what. Right now, she's living out in the summerhouse so she's got some privacy, but she'll be sharing the hostess duties with Nora tomorrow." Gibbs was surprised that they let a teenage girl live away from the main house and expected her to share in the duties for tomorrow, but he supposed that if she'd had a bodyguard pretty much all her life she'd want to have some space for herself. Tomorrow though, he'd request that she stay at the main house for the night—much safer that way.

Wiest led him into the warm kitchen where Nora and the housekeeper had spread out a huge array of sandwich materials, hot soup, and salads. Clearly, this was a family that didn't stand on formality much, and oddly, he felt at home here with the genial company and the genuine warmth. The bedroom he had been assigned was large and rich with antique furniture. He ran his hand appreciatively over the beautifully turned bedposts and admired a petite pie-crust table which had clearly been hand-crafted. As he lay down to sleep that night, he relaxed for the first time since he had arrived back in the States.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The next night arrived quickly enough. Wiest had given him a tour of the grounds the evening before and showed him the location of the summerhouse, but had not introduced him to his granddaughter Odessa. With the rest of the details to be attended to, Gibbs had enough to deal with to keep him occupied for much of the day. As the evening approached, he and his team, who had arrived earlier that day, were invited to a light supper with Nora and the commodore in the kitchen before the party started, and then they all scattered to their rooms to dress.

He and his team were in place when the first guests arrived. Wiest took hold of his arm and pulled him towards a small grouping around Nora. "Gibbs, let me introduce you to my grandgirl, Odessa," he boomed cheerfully. He gestured to not a teenage girl, but a woman.

She turned from her grandmother to face them and he saw her pupils widen slightly. Her long hair was the same wheat gold that it had been in Aix, but her eyes were a shade of blue-green that left him stunned; the exact color of the narrow band of the sea where the shallows met the depths. Her skin was creamy golden-ivory and had only the barest of cosmetics on it. Odessa's chin was slightly pointed and her nose a perfectly straight and narrow line. In short, she looked nothing like she had the previous times he had met her, and yet he had known her in an instant. Tonight she was dressed in a soft grey gown that made her look slightly ethereal. For the first time he was seeing the real woman, not the agent. She quirked one side of her mouth at him in a now-familiar gesture, and he felt his own lips curve in an involuntary smile.

She extended her hand in a graceful gesture to him, and he took it, noticing the smallness of her hand and the soft skin. "Odessa Black," she said her voice low and cultured. He had no idea why, but he suddenly wondered what his name would sound like on those lips in the heat of passion. He felt his mouth go completely dry and he let her hand go. "We'll have to chat later Special Agent Gibbs," she said smoothly. "I look forward to talking to you later." He nodded stupidly at her and turned away, mentally head-slapping himself.

From his side the commodore chuckled softly, "Don't worry son, she does that to a lot of men." Oh, he just bet she did.

He watched her carefully throughout the evening as she socialized and danced with various officers and their escorts, dancing a couple of times, once with a German Army officer, once with her grandfather. She moved gracefully across the floor in the arms of the German who was leaning down to her, far too closely, Gibbs thought with a sudden flare of white-hot jealousy. She turned her head briefly and caught his eye, quirking that sexy as hell smile at him. He felt himself growing hard just watching her.

The commodore had slid silently up to his side and he jumped in reflex when Wiest gently nudged him in the ribs. "Better ask her to dance son. She looks uncomfortable with that German fella." Gibbs shook his head; he was still on duty and couldn't risk it.

The evening passed with no incident and the ball wound down at about one in the morning. As he was helping finish up the security check of all the rooms for the night, having sent his team to scour the grounds for stragglers and strays, Odessa Black slid up next to him in the rapidly emptying ballroom.

"You never asked me to dance," she reproved him in that sexy alto voice. He shook his head in an attempt to clear it from the thoughts that suddenly raced through it. "I couldn't," he reminded her. "Security detail." He looked into her eyes, and she smiled. He was suddenly seized with a sudden attack of madness. "You could dance with me now," he offered. The smile widened a bit and she extended her hand to him.

He led her across the now empty floor and slid an arm around her waist, careful to keep his hand discreetly on her back. Her arm sliding across his shoulders caused him to bite back the shiver of pleasure that her touch evoked. They moved smoothly across the floor keeping perfect time together. He held her carefully, almost gingerly, afraid that if he had her completely in his arms, he'd never be able to let her go again. Instead, Odessa mover her body closer to his, slipping her arm more closely around him and settling her head close to his; he could feel the warmth of her breath on the side of his neck and it was driving him crazy. He desperately wanted to kiss the silky skin just below her ear, nibble on her neck, see what reaction she had to the caress. God, had it been so long since he'd had a woman that he was turned on by a mere closeness to one? Or was he reacting to _her_? He swallowed hard and turned his head to look straight ahead, not at that delectable little spot just there, under her chin. Damn. That little scar was there, apparently real and not latex. She was clearly a genius with makeup and facial sculpting, but had chosen not to hide that little imperfection. Why that charmed him he didn't know.

Odessa laughed softly, that sweet sound that hit him where he lived and he felt a sudden hunger that had nothing to do with food clench his gut. She pulled away from him and smiled. "Thank you for the dance. If you'll excuse me, I'm tired and probably should get to my bed soon. Good night." She moved away gracefully but with purpose, and against his will, his eyes followed her out of the room and across the foyer.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Leroy Jethro Gibbs was pissed. He paced the bedroom restlessly, unsure of exactly why he was so angry. The commodore and his wife had been warm and friendly, offering him the bedroom he had stayed in the night before, unwilling to risk him or his team driving home at the late hour, and so had urged them all to stay the night.

Kestrel. He couldn't really think of her as Odessa. She had nothing in common with that wintry, cold city. She was light and warmth personified. The thought of her tonight was driving him mad and making him mad. Did he want her? Of course he did. Or did he really want Jen, and Kestrel was merely close at hand and clearly interested? He refused to go to one woman's bed wanting another woman instead. Jen and Kestrel weren't interchangeable, and it was unfair to use her that way.

His thoughts drifted back to Kestrel though. He realized that he had forgotten to request she stay in the main house that night. Perhaps he'd better go bring her back here. He wandered out to the second floor landing and gazed at the lights in the summerhouse. She was probably awake. Was she there with a lover? That German officer?

Before he knew what he was doing, he was striding down the steps to the front door. The house was quiet, except for a few of the catering staff clearing the last of the food and dishes away. The cold air hit him in the face when he opened the front doors, but somehow that failed to shock him out of this insanity. He strode across the lawn towards the summerhouse, determined to bring her back with him.

Gibbs paused at the steps to the wraparound porch, watching her through the window. Kestrel had a glass of brandy cupped in her hand to warm it; she hadn't taken off her ball gown, but her hair was unpinned from the elegant up-do she'd had it in, swirling around her shoulders like a ribbon of pure sunlight. She looked a little tired; perhaps he should go. But then she saw him through the window and she smiled at him, crooking her fingers in invitation to him. And like a damned sleepwalker, he obeyed her.


	4. Summerhouse Nocturne

Once inside, she handed him a glass of bourbon, neat. "I remember from your file that your drink is bourbon. If you'd prefer it in a coffee mug I can arrange that." Her eyes twinkled with mischief, as she passed him the glass.

He laughed. "No, I suppose I can be civilized for once."

"Pity. I think I might like the uncivilized Gibbs quite a lot."

"I doubt it. I can get pretty feral when all the restraints are off."

"And if I put restraints on you?" He choked on the bourbon. Oh, God. The double-meaning was clear, even without the half-lidded flirty look she gave him. He swallowed hard, as his cock stirred at her words.

"Not my game." What the fuck was he saying? His voice sounded far away, as if another man was speaking them entirely. "But restraints on _you_…" His voice trailed off.

She grinned and took a long sip of her brandy, looking at him with what could only be described as a smirk. "Never knew you liked your women submissive. I hate to tell you this, but I don't play that game."

"How do you know you won't like it?" He drew closer. "I could make you change your mind."

"Oh, so you _do_ like your women submissive. I never figured Jenny Shepherd for that type at all."

The mention of Jen cut across his arousal like broken glass. She clearly knew that Jen had left him. He stilled, the anger in him stirring again. "Why bring her up now? This is between you and me; she's got nothing to do with it."

Kestrel looked levelly at him across the rim of her glass, no smile this time. She was deadly serious. "Because I'm not going to play substitute for another woman. When you're in my bed, I want to know that it's me you want, not Jenny Shepherd. If I'm not the woman you want I'm not going to settle for being the woman you're with." It was as though she had read his earlier thoughts.

He looked steadily at her. "If I'm in your bed, I want to know that I have the woman in my arms, not the agent. That this isn't some kind of game or op you're working."

"With you? Never a game or an op." She moved closer to him. He could smell her light perfume now, something soft and vaguely floral. "You'll always get the best of me."

His lips came crashing down on hers, aware that he was being rougher with her than he should be. He was also suddenly aware that she was in his arms and her fingers were tangling in his hair. She groaned with pleasure as his tongue slid along her lower lip, opening for him, stroking his tongue with hers. The kiss was so damn sexy he nearly lost control then and there. She pressed closer to him, letting his leg slide between her thighs and leaning against him, hard. He could feel her heat against his thigh, moving in a seductive rhythm, stroking herself through her gown. The thought drove him crazy, and his cock ached with the need to be inside her.

He pressed her against a nearby wall, gripping her wrists and holding them over her head with one hand, using the other to reach around her back for the zip of her gown. She struggled to free herself but he was stronger and he held her there easily. Her chuckle rumbled into his mouth as she gave up and gave in to his control. He had a feeling that she only gave up like this when she wanted to, but not compelled to, and somehow that made what was about to happen all the more meaningful to him. She wanted this, she wanted his strength, his passion.

Gibbs released her hands long enough to slide the straps of her gown down off her shoulders, pushing the bodice to her waist. One hand pressed her upper body closer to him, the other gently stroked over her bare breast, feeling the nipple tighten and harden under his fingertips, and then stroke the backs of his fingers under the curve of her heavy breast. He buried his face in her neck, feathering kisses along the column, nipping lightly at the sensitive spot where her neck joined her shoulder, licking the line of her collarbone before letting his tongue dip into the creamy hollow of her throat. He felt the shudders of pleasure as she held his head, tangling her fingers in his short hair.

He dropped his mouth lower, kissing the top of each breast in turn, before he finally used his tongue on her nipple, enjoying her moans. He slid his tongue over the cleft at the tip of her nipple and then moved to trace the rosy pink areola with his tongue, teasing her. Her cry, as he finally pulled the nipple into his mouth and suckled, was the sweetest sound he had ever heard.

Kestrel's hands were pushing impatiently at his jacket, trying to slide it off his shoulders, and he helped her by shrugging it down his arms. When it was halfway down, she swiftly turned the tables on him, twisting around so his back was at the wall, arms pinned by the jacket. She laughed evilly, and began kissing the soft spot just under his ear, alternately nipping at it and then soothing the sting with her tongue. His laugh turned into a delicious groan as his head tipped back to give her better access to his neck. Her soft little hands were impatiently unbuttoning his shirt, undoing the studs. Gibbs allowed her to push it open and down his shoulders, and snickered at her frustration at finding his undershirt instead of bare skin. She ran the edge of her teeth down the corded muscle on the side of his neck as she made quick work of the cummerbund and untucked his t-shirt from his pants.

Gibbs felt the world tilt around them, felt something solid against his back, and realized that she had dragged him to the floor with her in an attempt to get off his jacket and shirt. Unfortunately she had released his arms from the tangle they were in, and he used them to wrap around her waist and roll her to her back. Ignoring her scream of laughter, he applied his talented mouth to her nipples again, sucking and licking until she was gasping, pressing her heels into the floor to tilt her hips up, rubbing against the well obvious erection. Kestrel slid her small hands up into his t-shirt, gently plucking and caressing his flat, hard nipples until he moaned around a mouthful of her nipple.

Sitting up, he quickly divested himself of the shirt and took the opportunity to admire the view under him. Her hair was tumbled into a riot of curls, eyes bright and clear, the skin of her throat and chest lightly flushed with her arousal. Naked to the waist and more beautiful than he could ever have imagined she would be, he caught his breath in open admiration. She reached up and gently touched his cheek, loving his sudden tenderness, and he caught her hand with his and pressed a kiss to her open palm. She caressed his jaw with the bare tips of her fingers, stroking her fingers across his lips as if memorizing the shape and texture.

He rolled to his side, pulling her with him, and the first touch of skin-on-skin caused them both to gasp with pleasure. She felt like silk and velvet he thought, sliding his hand down the smooth curve of her bare back, feeling her shiver at the pleasure. Kestrel returned the caress, slipping one hand down his back, feeling his muscles move under his skin, and sliding the other slowly down his chest, stopping to gently stroke his nipples again, before moving again down his flat belly, following the trail of soft hair under her fingers. She began unbuckling his belt as he teased the zipper of her dress down, pushing the gown down to her hips. His tongue stroked hers, imitating the unconscious movements of his hips against hers.

Gibbs let her open his belt, and jerked in surprise as she pulled his holstered gun from it. "Sorry." he breathed into her open mouth, "Forgot I was wearing it."

"Good thing I took mine off when I got here." She moved the gun to a nearby table setting it securely down.

"You were wearing a gun?" His cock jerked at the thought of her being armed and dangerous under that gauzy gown.

"Of course."

She was now unzipping his pants, and pushing them down his hips, throwing in some touches for good measure, taking no heed of how explicit those caresses were. Her fingers closed around his hard shaft through his boxers, and he arched into her touch, letting her stroke him. He kissed her again, divesting her of the gown and stroking her belly through the silk of panties so brief he wondered why she had bothered to wear any at all. The heat of her pussy, the moisture soaking through the fabric, drove his lust to a frenzy. He snarled and pulled her hands away from him, moving between her legs, hooking his thumbs in the sides of her panties and ripped them off. She groaned with pure lust as he took in the smell and the sight of her naked body.

Gibbs kissed her belly and then pressed a kiss into the soft curls just above her swollen clit. She cried out and jerked under him, and he began to lick the hard nub, teasing and coaxing the shy little clit from under the hood. She was crying out now, her head tossing restlessly on the floor. Kestrel dug her sharp little nails into his shoulders and scalp, and the mixture of pleasure and pain drove him higher. God, he wanted to taste her. He licked the silken liquid from her, tasting her sweet essence, stroking her harder and returned to swirl his tongue around her clit, pulling it into his mouth. The sounds of her ecstasy were flooding his ears, and all he could think of was making them more frantic and louder. He wanted her screaming his name. His long, blunt fingers pushed inside her, first one, then two. She bucked under the thrusts of his fingers in her pussy, and he licked and sucked her clit harder. Gibbs could feel her inner walls rippling around his fingers, pulling and stroking them, and he increased the pace of his thrusts, needing to feel her unravel under his touch.

She was biting her lips to keep from screaming; and he lifted his head, his eyes heavy with lust. "Don't hold it in, baby. Scream for me. Scream my name." She obeyed instantly, screaming "Jethro!" as his fingers worked deeper, increasing the pull of the rippling inner walls. He could feel it now, feel the tension knotting low in her belly, feel her need for release ripping though her. He bent his head again to suck on her clit and letting his fingers curl around her pubic bone to find the soft spot there, pressing on it steadily. The knot of tension snapped and she screamed his name again. He felt her pulling on his hair, her body arching toward his mouth as she gave herself over to the pleasure of her release.

He coaxed her down from her high with slow caresses and kisses, letting her taste herself in his mouth, something that stoked the flames to a pitch so high they were both afraid they'd burn alive, as she shoved his pants and boxers down his thighs. Gibbs cried out as her fingers curled around his shaft, pumping him slowly, stroking the first spurt of his pre-come over the swollen head. "Kes, I can't…" he choked.

"I don't want you to…" she replied in a throaty moan.

His fingers stroked her clit, as she fumbled in a little evening bag that had been knocked off the little table onto the floor. He took the foil packet from her and ripped it open, but she took the condom from him and rolled it on his erection, stroking and caressing him as she went, jerking a strangled sound from him. He looked at her: wearing only her stockings and a garter belt, he had never seen anything so incredibly sexy in his life. He knew what, or rather who he wanted, and Jen had become the furthest thing from his mind.

Rolling between her thighs, moving his hips closer to her, she gripped his cock and positioned the blunt head at the entrance to her body. He positioned himself there and thrust forward, sliding inside her slick channel. Gibbs froze to let them both adjust to the feeling of their intimate connection, breathing hard, sweat rolling down his back. Kestrel made a mewling sound and tried to push her hips upward and pull him in further, but he caught her hips and pressed them into the floor.

Sliding another fraction of the way, he paused again only to hear her hiss from between clenched teeth, "If you draw this out any longer I will shoot you with your own gun." He started to laugh and she took swift advantage of his temporary distraction to free her hips from his grip and thrust herself upward, forcing him deeper inside her. His laugh changed to a cry which mingled with hers. His self-control was shattering and he thrust all the way into her, feeling the tight walls rippling and stretching to accommodate him. He lay there a moment letting them both revel in the sensations before he pulled out and then thrust back in. Her cry of protest at his retreat was swallowed up by his movement back.

They began to move together, finding a rhythm quickly, and his mouth caught hers in a deep kiss that seared him to the depths of his soul. He was forced to abandon the last of his self-control; he was mindless in his pursuit of passion, just as she was. Christ, how long had it _been_ since it had been this good with a woman? No words, just the sound of their bodies and the cries and groans of pleasure as they pushed each other to the edge, her hips meeting every thrust of his evenly. He didn't want this woman to be submissive to him, he wanted her just as she was right now—letting her passion make her wild for him. Her sharp nails raked down his back causing him to hiss with the mixture of pleasure and pain, and slid down to cup his buttocks, trying to pull him deeper inside of her.

He was close to the edge and he fought it back; he needed her with him, needed to see her pleasure, needed to feel her coming undone around him. The knot of tension, which had been only partly resolved with her previous climax, was winding tighter and tighter, forcing her higher and higher, and taking him with her.

Kestrel's cries changed suddenly to screams, the knot snapped again forcing her upward, and he was caught in the first spasms of her release. Her inner walls were milking his cock and instantly he was there with her. Gibbs's vision blackened and he was lost. There was nothing but the climax brutally unwinding both of them, flinging everything that they were outward to the stars and beyond. He was lost.

His hips jerked hard against hers, pushing them both through to the end. He collapsed on top of her, knowing that he was probably crushing her, but needing the deep contact with her body still. Evidently she felt the same way, wrapping her arms tight around his shoulders, stroking the back of his head and his neck. He moved to her side, despite her whispered protests, and disposed of the condom quickly. She lay on the floor still in her stockings and garter belt, looking completely sated and thoroughly spent. Those amazing blue-green eyes watched him, taking in his nakedness appreciatively, through a sleepy half-lidded gaze. He pulled her up with him and whispered "Bedroom?"She stretched like a cat, smiled at him and led him to her bed.


End file.
